


Gods of Gold

by Zooheaded



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama, Grimdark, M/M, Multi, Romance, Slow Burn, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-02-26 23:27:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2670350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zooheaded/pseuds/Zooheaded
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A reluctant Inquisitor Trevelyan struggles to live up to his titles, and Dorian of House Pavus learns to leave his behind. A series following the events of DA:I.</p><p>(Ratings and warnings may change in the future. Tags will be added as necessary.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gods of Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I made a Jackquisitor. This should be fun.
> 
> A brief hiatus from Diablo, I have no plans for any sort of longer story at this time, but I couldn't help but think of a few drabbles. I highly recommend this game, it's marvelous.

 

" _So Moses went back to the_ _Lord_ _and said, “Oh, what a great sin these people have committed! They have made themselves gods of gold. But now, please forgive their sin—but if not, then blot me out of the book you have written.”_ _—_ Exodus 32:31

 

 

Jack blinked in the flickering light. It was dim and hazy, and there was a howling beyond the borders of his vision that was anything but beasts... and _warmth_.

But how?

Everything in his most recent memory had been biting ice, a wind so cold and merciless it watered his eyes, froze his eyelashes together and frosted the moisture over his cheeks. The singing of the wolves in the surrounding dark had been a strange comfort to him then, at least he would not die alone. Snow formed in drifts up to his thighs, melting against him just enough to freeze, every part of him going slowly numb until even the shivering stopped. Pain kept him awake, but it would not preserve him forever.

But, cutting through the cold like white-hot metal, the Mark had been warm. It melted the snow that fell in his hands, dripping cold down his fingertips. The heat it generated the only possible way he had been able to draw even one more arrow against the demons that spilled from that rift in the frozen passage beneath Haven. The mark was burning brighter and hotter then ever before and as the cold came to claim him for the Maker once and for all, he thought that damned mar, that permanent _anchor_ , would be the last thing he would ever feel.

But _warmth_.

Where had he been before this? Before the warmth and before the cold? Trying to save a crumbling fortress filled with innocent people who had joined a fledgling cause? A foolish cause. They had not been prepared. They had all believed he was Andraste's chosen, the precious _Herald._ Now Jack knew the truth of things. He had simply been in the wrong place at the right time and gotten in the way of some creature's failed spell. His only real accomplishment thus far had been to delay the inevitable onslaught that had claimed life after life. His family might finally have been proud of him, at least for a few fleeting moments.

Corypheus had shown Jack what he had known to be true all along. He had no worldly _idea_ what he was doing, and all of those poor people who had called him divine had died because of him. He was no chosen one. In his mind's eye he could still feel the heated, rancid breath of the dragon, an arch demon, and hear the screams of the people he had not been able to get to whilst they burned.

 _I should have died with them_. _For all the good I've done._ The failure rose bitter in the back of his throat.

And now he lay... _somewhere._ Warm for the first time since recent memory, while an unending list acquired more names of lost people who deserved to be warm far more than he did. He blinked again, trying to figure out where _somewhere_ was. A tent ceiling, lit by a lantern and-

“Ah, there you are.” A familiar voice and an extremely familiar, absurdly groomed mustache drifted into view.

“...Dorian?”

Dorian smiled at him, looking a little tired but very much alive. “And delightfully coherent I see! I have _wonderful_ news, it seems you've successfully managed to best a rather distasteful creature with a god complex and his arch-demon pet, not to mention enabling us all to escape into the wilderness with a well-timed avalanche that buried a holy pilgrimage destination.” The Tevinter mage listed off cheerfully while Jack stared at him.

“But the real kicker was your miraculous return! Drifting back to us from the frozen dark like a spirit guided away from the other side, but in reality much, _much_ closer to a man shaped icicle, but don't worry, I'm sure your divine resurrection will be recorded in a far more flattering way.” Dorian assured him, pulling his blanket in closer around his shoulders and making himself comfortable next to Jack on the ground. “You even managed to keep all of your fingers and toes, and after half a night spent in the frozen wilderness, you _still_ stink of horse. Truly Jack, you never cease to amaze.”

Jack sighed softly, relieved, so he _had_ made it back to them, he didn't remember finding them or being found, but-

“Where _are_ we?” He asked, staring at what he guessed was the ceiling of a tent, rippling in the harsh wind that tore across its surface.

“Nowhere Frostback Mountains. Population, us.” The mage supplied unhappily. “I've been lighting fires all night, and wouldn't you know it, one of those clumsy apostates nearly set my hair alight. All too thrilled to help it seems.”

“Is everyone alright? Are they-” Jack made to move, to get up and swallowed a groan, air hissing through his teeth as pain lanced white hot through his right shoulder.

“Tsk tsk Herald.” Dorian admonished, “A rather poor decision at the moment, I disapprove. All of the healers are asleep, you really tested them with your little stunt earlier, and I'm afraid I'm not exactly up to the task at the moment either.” But the mage's expression lightened, becoming a bit devilish. “They say you've bruised just about everything, but I have not checked personally. Though I _will_ if you want me to. Every _inch_.” He laughed a dark little laugh, and Jack sniffed self consciously, ignoring him.

He tried to move again, more carefully this time, and manged to curl onto his side, another troubling thought occurring to him.“Did the red hart make it out alright?” He remembered smashing the lock on the gate to free the creature, and told him to follow the survivors, but had not seen it since.

“The last time I saw it it was getting _quite_ comfortable with Solas in his tent, and had two apples in its mouth at once. It even had its own blanket. Really, you spoil it.”

_Good._

Jack brought his hand close to his face and stared at the mark, it flickered and burned a vibrant ivy green. Sometimes he thought he might wake to find that it was all a terrible dream, but with each passing day he woke disappointed. The icy wind moaned like a lonely beast beyond the tent, a chill draft seeping in through ever corner. How many more would die from simple exposure out here before they found help? He shivered, and tried as hard as he could to will the mark away, but there it remained.

“He changed it.” Jack murmured, watching green flames lick over his fingers.

“Hm?”

“The _mark_. Corypheus called it an anchor. He said it was a failed spell, and he tried to take it back, but it didn't work. He said the mark was _permanent_.” Jack tried to explain. Magic was foreign to him, he hadn't been quite sure what Corypheus had even meant. But he had _not_ forgotten what the Darkspawn had said to him. _Permanent._

“It's different now.” Jack swallowed. “More.” _Perhaps it will consume me, freeing me from this burden of having being chosen._ He thought, but wishful thinking had never gotten him much before.

Dorian's amber gaze turned thoughtful and serious. “May I?” He asked, reaching for his hand and when Jack hesitated, grinned and added, “I only bite a little.” Dorian took Jack's hand in both of his warm, olive ones, sending a shiver down the rogue's spine at both the unfamiliarity of the touch and the warmth that he suddenly realized he was lacking. He was so _cold_.

“ _Fascinating_.” Dorian whispered, then smiled a little apologetically. “I know that's probably not what you want to hear, but it is. Fascinating I mean. I confess I've found my knowledge of the Fade to be a bit _lacking_. Perhaps Solas and I should get to know each other better.” The mage carelessly brushed his hand with gentle fingers, examining the edges where green light met skin with an intense focus, and Jack shivered again at the scrutiny.

Dorian looked up at him sharply. “You are cold. Here.” The Tevinter mage rested his hand atop the mountain of blankets, flames and embers forming under his palm with the sharp, fresh smell of magic, and for a moment, Jack thought that Dorian might set the blankets on fire, but there was a tingling sensation, then a flood of blessed heat that was like sinking into a hot bath. He was comfortably drowsy in minutes, fervently hoping that everyone else could be as warm.

“Cozy?” The mage asked, wearing a smug little expression.

“Yes... thank you.”

“Are you quite sure? I could snuggle in there with you.” Dorian offered, grinning impishly.

“ _Maker_ Dorian, do you never stop?” Jack asked sluggishly, closing his eyes.

“What a silly question! But you're tired, I suppose I should leave you to your beauty rest and let everyone know that you haven't up and died.” Dorian said, picking himself up from the floor gracefully, wearing his blanket like a cloak. _Mere rags upon a king._

“And yourself?” Jack asked, because surely the mage _must_ be tired if he had been awake all night, keeping everyone from freezing in their sleep.

“Unfortunately, you cannot improve upon perfection.” Dorian said, eyes glinting in the lantern light. “Sleep now, and perhaps they will sing your praises when you wake.”

“I wish they wouldn't. There is _nothing_ good to sing for.” Jack muttered, furious with himself all over again.

“Oh... I don't know about that. We have our lives thanks to you, and while you may not believe in yourself, they _do_.” Dorian said to him from the flap of the tent that led to bitter cold and swallowing blackness. “And that, is _everything_.”

“And what do _you_ believe Dorian?” Jack asked.

Dorian laughed, tipping his head back a little, casting his eyes in shadow. “I'll tell what I _don't_ believe, _coincidence_ my dear Herald. _Coincidence_.” The mage nodded goodnight to him and left, the sharp breeze of cold washing the air clean of the scent of burning lantern oil and fire magic.

Jack slept again soon after, and dreamt of green dragon's fire and a hundred voices, whispering his name in the dark.

 

 


	2. Stray

_“Of all God's creatures, there is only one that cannot be made slave of the leash. That one is the cat. If man could be crossed with the cat it would improve the man, but it would deteriorate the cat.”_ ― Mark Twain

 

 

Jack, Dorian was beginning to realize, was extremely difficult to locate.

The altus mage kept an observant eye upon Jack when he saw him, as he did all those that moved in the immediate vicinity of the library. Dorian wasn't very inclined to wander after his initial first day exploration of Skyhold, not because he wasn't interested in their new castle mind you, it was simply too miserably _cold_ to bother going outside. That and the holes in the walls didn't make for very warm hallway travel. Oh, he'd go to the Tavern in the evenings for drinks, and his quarters to sleep, but there was no singular collection of things that spelled cozy quite so well as an armchair at his back, a blanket on his shoulders, a cup of tea in his hand, and a book in his lap. The circular Skyhold library was just the place.

But their fledgling Inquisitor? The man was simply everywhere, until he quite suddenly _wasn't_.

Dorian observed the ebony haired rogue's frequent comings and goings. He flitted about the castle like a house wren that was not quite certain where it should settle itself down to nest, but checking every corner all the same. And he spoke to _everyone. 'How are things going?'_ or _'Are you comfortable here?'_ and _'Can I do anything to help?'_ Jack would say while Dorian peered at him over the edge of his latest novel, pretending to read. How could someone stand being so bloody helpful all the time? Wasn't it exhausting? But he accepted their concerns and questions, nodding and promising to look into them. And he always did. It was slightly infuriating. He almost preferred Jack's bad temper to this _Sir Helpful_. If the man ever tried to be so disgustingly helpful with _him_ then, well, Dorian would have a few choice requests, most of them rather inappropriate and sure to put a lovely red stain of embarrassment upon the Inquisitor's cheeks.

It was exhausting to watch him, certainly, but a little enjoyable as well. Dorian would be the first to admit that the black-haired, blue eyed rogue was rather easy on the eyes. He certainly wouldn't mind a taste. Though, neither would half of _Thedas_ , he mused.

Beyond that, the mage had observed the Inquisitor assisting Solas with a massive mural at the bottom of the tower. He'd watch them over the circular balcony when he was between books. They spoke of paints and plaster, and _elfy_ things especially, but occasionally the Fade as well, their voices carrying up through the open center of the tower like the flapping of the raven's wings that lived at the top.

Dorian first noticed Jack's peculiar affinity for beasts when he had come to Haven. The man had been positively smitten with the Red Heart that had been sent as a gift from the Dalish. Jack spent more time in the stables with the horses then he did talking to _people_. Dorian was also fairly certain he had seen two small Nugs in matching blue-knit sweaters patrolling the hallways late one evening. At the time he had chalked it up to too many samples of Iron Bull's favorite liquor, but now he was not so sure.

There was a Tranquil in the library, Halisma, whom Jack often spoke to. Dorian couldn't really imagine why, Tranquil weren't always the best conversationalists after all. Too blunt, too revealing, and honestly a little creepy. But speak to her he did, and Dorian had not forgotten the expression that had crossed the man's face when the poor woman had mentioned that she remembered liking animals, but could not remember why. _Heartbreak._ Ever since that day, Jack still spoke to her, but he would often bring one of Leliana's Mabari hounds, or one of the tower ravens for the woman to pet, even though it no longer mattered. Jack was not the sort of person who could ignore the plight of the mages it seemed, despite his typical Ferelden upbringing, and though Dorian couldn't say he was _displeased_ with this interesting turn of events, it felt like a step in the right direction for making a world for people like him that _wasn't_ the Tevinter Empirium, but he was rather fearful that this new alliance could end up biting him in the arse, and Dorian would much rather it be _him_ doing the biting.

Then Jack would simply disappear. He would vanish so suddenly and so completely that practically the entire castle would be in an uproar. _Typical rogue_. But Dorian didn't mind, the man deserved to do whatever he liked for all the damned _work_ he did. But apparently, Dorian not caring didn't matter to the frantic castle staff who would ask him repeatedly for Jack's whereabouts, sometimes in _droves_. Eventually, when _'I don't know'_ and _'I don't care'_ were no longer acceptable answers, Dorian took to suggesting that the staff should leave a saucer of milk out on the back step to entice their stray Inquisitor to come home. Josephine was the only one to find this amusing.

When one young servant girl came to him in tears, claiming that she desperately needed Jack's approval for a specific order of supplies (or whatever) or else she risked losing her position, Dorian began to feel a little _bad_. “I looked in the throne room, and I-I looked in his quarters, I looked in the taverns and all the rooms in every wing and even all the bloody closets! He simply isn't _anywhere_!” The woman babbled at him whilst she looked for nonexistent secret doorways in the walls behind the bookshelves with the singular diligence of a woman at her wit's end.

Oh, so no one had ever _bothered_ to check the stables then? The man always smelled of hay and horse fur, how could they not? Dorian sighed, exasperated.

“Have you tried the stables my dear? Or the aviary upstairs? I'm certain he'll be in at least _one_ of those places. But it's our little secret alright? Our dear Inquisitor does _so_ value his privacy.” Dorian advised, hoping that this might be the last time he was disturbed on account of the man's untimely absence.

The woman wiped her eyes and looked at him with such gratitude that he couldn't help but smile at her rather cheerfully.

Difficult to find indeed, unless one happened to know where to _look_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could not remember the name of the Tranquil lady in the library (I think it's Halisma but Idk) and I'm currently in a quest where I can't go back to Skyhold and check, so if her name is wrong... please forgive me. xD


	3. Clipped Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting a bit more used to writing Dorian now I think.

_And now my bitter hands cradle broken glass of what was everything_  
 _All the pictures have all been washed in black, tattooed everything._  
― _Black_ , Pearl Jam

 

 

The singular problem with being from Tevinter, Dorian mused, was that it was difficult to get people from Ferelden to associate with you long enough to hold a proper conversation.

The 'Evil Tevinter Magister' stigma followed him like a particularly potent cloud of flatulence that people wrinkled their noses at, didn't mention to his face, but whispered to each other about afterward when they thought him out of earshot. A bit like _home_ actually, though the comparison didn't exactly produce warm and fuzzy feelings. Everyone in Skyhold knew who he was and where he was from, he had been foolish to think he could go more than five minutes in their new base of operations with it being otherwise.

They avoided him mostly, avoided looking at him (their loss really), avoided talking, some even regarded him with barely concealed expressions of fear. A young elf apostate, whom Dorian had learned was a former slave, had appeared nauseous at the very sight of him. At first, Dorian had been a bit confused, he'd had no idea that tales of his homeland had been so outlandish and widespread. Granted, a fair bit of it was _true_ , but most people refused to hear anything to the contrary and blamed his people for every bad thing that occurred in their little corner of the world. With that kind of fear mongering, it was no wonder that mages in the south were held under lock and key.

Even Fiona looked at him like he was dirty. A walking reminder of her shame.

Most of the time it was just fine, he could wear the hate and the fear as a badge, proof of the work ahead of him in clearing the name of his homeland, changing it for the better. Not to mention he could do just about anything he pleased without being bothered by silly inquiries. But sometimes he wanted to talk to the _other_ mages about magical theory, sometimes he wanted to play chess with someone _else_ , or talk about the books he had read, sometimes it _wasn't_ fine.

Sometimes it was lonely, but he had resigned himself to that a long time ago.

Lack of stimulating conversation meant that when Dorian wasn't reading, he was spending a lot of time feeling bored inside his own head. A rather _new_ experience, and when he was so inclined to be bored, he invented games to amuse himself, and since 'fashion critique' and 'count the corner cobwebs' got old very quickly, most of Dorian's games involved teasing the members of their peculiar party. It was amusing to goad them for different reasons, but no one was so enjoyable to tease as their very own Inquisitor, so apt to fly off at the handle as he was, even at the smallest things. If Jack wasn't careful he would likely pop a vein within the month.

People spent so much time trying not to look at him, that when someone looked, really _looked_ , Dorian took notice. Lately, he had started to notice the frequent, heated gaze of a fetching pair of icy blue eyes, peering intently at him from beneath a thick curtain of black hair, but Jack would always look away quickly whenever Dorian tried to catch him doing so. Then quite suddenly, simple teasing became flirting, a far more dangerous game, but it was ever so hilarious to see the young Trevelyan grit his teeth and attempt to stoically ignore the words and well, he _did_ blush rather prettily in the wake of compliments.

The mage tried to justify it to himself as simply another way to tease, to goad, to keep himself from boredom and smelling too much of book, but inside he knew. He was, as they said in the south, _testing the waters._

The embarrassment, the blushing, the _staring_. What did it mean? Did Jack actually _like_ this game between them? Was he really... Maker preserve, _interested_ in Dorian? The signs were all there but the Tevinter mage had long ago learned not to let himself get over excited, not to want too much or let it in too deep too quickly, but he found that he spent a good deal of time staring into space, daydreaming about kissing a certain boy. It was a bit like school had been, but with significantly less studying, stress, and getting his wrists rapped with a ruler for talking (still no warm fuzzies yet, thanks). Putting it that way, perhaps the Inquisition _was_ a bit similar after all.

As the days rolled by, Dorian found that he was actually beginning to _hope_ , but he'd made this mistake before, countless times, with men back home, and with Relenus. He didn't want to make it ever again if he could help it, having your heart stepped on got old after all.

He had to be careful, yes, but he had to know.

 

=+=+=+=+=+=

 

It was several days later that such an opportunity presented itself. Dorian had finally gotten the gumption (without finding someone else to do it for him) to wander upstairs to locate some books of Leliana's that he'd wanted to borrow. She wasn't there, which was fine, but -dark hair, tan skin and striking blue eyes- Jack _was_.

This was also fine.

The man was seated on a crate in the dark, staring at his hand as though in a trance, whilst he absently pet a raven that had lit upon his knee.

“Good afternoon Dorian.” Jack greeted absently, flickering green casting a rather sickly hue over his face.

“Inquisitor.” Dorian returned with a nod and a smile while he grabbed a tome detailing the many uses of dragon's blood, and a worn copy of 'Hard in Hightown' because... why not? The title was rather _intriguing_ at any rate.

“Dorian,” Jack continued, looking away from his strange, glowing hand and fixing his pretty blue eyes upon the mage. “I've been meaning to ask...”

 _Venhedis!_ Was he really going to-

“...Being from Tevinter and all, no one has been treating you poorly... have they?”

Ahh, yes. Sir Helpful and his trusty bird companion here to save the day again. How droll.

“If by treating me poorly, do you mean to be asking if people are saying things like, _'there goes that Evil Tevinter Magister, I've got my eye on that one'_ or _'I saw his eyes flash red! Must be about ready to shit out a demon!'_ or perhaps even _'Oh no, I've cut myself on a book page, did that Magister see? I wouldn't want him to blood magic my face off'_ if so, then yes. But do I _care_? No. Nonetheless your concern is much appreciated.” Dorian drawled.

Jack frowned, that little furrow appearing between his eyebrows. “If they _are_ bothering you I-”

“My dear Inquisitor, I am in fact, an adult, and I can no doubt handle the big bad bullies all by my little lonesome without hiding tearfully beneath your skirts.”

The Free Marcher noble sighed at Dorian with the familiar air of deep irritation, and turned his attention back to his feathery friend.

“You don't... _always_ have to call me that.” Jack said after a pause.

“What? A skirt wearing busybody?”

“ _No_.” Jack grit irritably, “Inquisitor.”

“Well, you _are_ the Inquisitor are you not?” Dorian reminded him, pushing books aside one by one, checking each title as he did so. “No matter how much you smell of hay.”

Jack seemed to deflate a bit and stared back down at his marked hand. “So they keep telling me.” He said softly.

“ _Jack_ then. How are our new mage friends coming along?” Dorian asked breezily, partly out of general interest, but partly to chase away that troublesome, unhappy expression that had crossed the young Trevelyan's features.

The dark haired man seemed to think on this, his fingers moving distractedly over the back of the messenger bird in light, measured strokes.

“There is a legend in the Free Marches, that if the ravens were to ever leave Irton Hall, that the castle and the noble family that resides within would fall to ruin.” Jack said, petting the shiny head feathers of Mr. Raven, perched so happily upon his knee. “They clipped the birds wings and held them there so that they could never leave. There are ravens kept there to this day.”

“A southern folktale? A _flight of fancy_ if you will?” Dorian asked with a little laugh.

“Yes, and the Hapsburg castle to the west, they killed all of their nesting ravens, considering them to be pests, and that castle was supposedly tormented by flocks of Turnfalken, vengeful bird spirits that eventually caused ruin for their household, crumbling their dynasty, leaving them with nothing.”

“Tales meant to frighten small nobles perhaps?” Dorian remarked.

“Perhaps.”

The mage smiled and moved a little closer, sitting down neatly on the crate next to the Inquisitor. “I suppose we'll have to make sure our ravens stay around so we don't meet a similar end, our corpses dotted with bird leavings.”

Jack glanced at him, that same smoldering stare he always used that _did things_ to Dorian, then returned to the bird on his knee, straightening his back a little and rolling his muscular shoulders. Dorian felt his mouth flood with saliva, and he swallowed, the sound loud in his ears.

“The key is not to clip their wings and bind them into servitude, but to treat them as equals and let them earn their freedoms.”

“Not unlike our apostate friends, am I correct?” Dorian asked with a wry smile, smoothing his palms over the books in his lap, “Your metaphors are showing, Jack.”

Jack smiled, a barely there quirk of his lips. “Correct. You must make them _want_ to stay.”

Dorian set his books down on the floor and leaned over to give the raven's neck a careful scratch, the bird purred happily and tilted into his fingers. “Is that what you do with all your allies? With _us_? Make us want to stay? Your very own collection of beasts. You have quite the variety already, a Qunari, and elf-hating-elf, a Grey Warden and a _Tevinter Magister_. Just think Jack, you could open your very own petting zoo, a fundraiser to fix those great big bloody holes in the walls.” The mage said lowly, throwing the other man a searching gaze.

They were so _close_ now.

“I doubt any of them would appreciate that. Sera least of all, I fear her feathers might be rubbed the wrong way.” Jack said in a rare display of humor.

“ _I_ might appreciate it.” Dorian breathed huskily, then without waiting for an answer, brushed the raven from the man's knee, braced his own hand upon the warm surface and pressed their lips together.

Jack's mouth opened in surprise and he went completely still, but before Dorian could do anything to deepen the kiss or even anything at _all_ Jack jerked away from him and stood up, backing away a few paces, hand at his mouth, and _staring_ at Dorian with those large blue eyes and oh- _I fucked up._

Dorian stumbled over his words, embarrassed, confused, _ashamed_. “What's wrong? I-I thought-”

“I... should go.” Jack breathed, moving further and further away from him by the second. “I-I'm sorry, I have to _go_.”

Then the Inquisitor turned on his heel and simply fled, his boots striking heavily upon the stairs, echoing in the ensuing silence.

Confusion bled into anger.

What the fuck was wrong with him? Hadn't Jack _wanted_ this? The mixed signals Dorian had waded through to even get to this point were thicker than a pool of tar. It's not like he didn't have experience with people being interested in him, it was all falling into place same as it always had. Did the noble even like men at _all_? Had he just been playing? Teasing right back? Dorian was so fucking _tired_ of this, tired of this game, tired of hiding and waiting and sneaking and hoping, and he was just _tired_. It was his own fault for wanting it too much he supposed, jumping to conclusions. He'd probably just dreamed half of it up, and now he's gone and made a right arse of himself. Was he so desperate and self absorbed now that any sort of friendliness seemed like it was more?

Anger drifted sharply to hurt and self loathing. It would be easier wouldn't it, if he'd been like everyone else. Easier if his father had actually _succeeded_. He swallowed the bile that rose in his throat at the thought and took a deep breath. Being this way had never gotten him anything more than heartbreak, tears, and a few good lays on the side.

He should have remembered that this was how things were, and how they would _always_ be. Pride in oneself left no room for happiness.

Dorian left his books there, uncaring, and made his way down to the Herald's miserable little hovel they referred to as a tavern, looking forward to spending the rest of his afternoon drinking himself under the table.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The raven legend is based on the myth surrounding England's Tower of London, which holds its own collection of captive ravens.


	4. Free Marcher Barbarians

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian never was one to walk away from an obvious challenge.

_“One is always half mad when one is shy of people.”_  
― Robert Walser, _Jakob von Gunten_

 

 

They avoided each other. Well, maybe not _completely_. Dorian still came along on every little jaunt from the arse end of the Hinterlands to the miserable wetness of the Storm Coast, because, for various unfathomable reasons, Jack still asked him to go. The dance of avoidance was cautious and coordinated, but people had started to notice, he was certain of that. Jack went where he was called, and everyone else scrambled to follow. Skyhold was still an organizational mess. It would take weeks to sort everything out. Dorian was glad it wasn't _his_ job, but he did feel sorry for the mountain of work Josephine had ahead of her.

Dorian was grateful he had waited until he was sober to write a suitable letter to Maevaris. At least one suitable enough to not start with, _'Well Mae I've gone and done it again'_ or _'I miss you, please, please come and stay here with me,'_ because the first was too self-deprecating and she'd always hated it when he did that to himself, and the second was far too desperate, not to mention simply impossible. He had barely been able to leave Tevinter behind himself and the thought of asking her to do the same was... _selfish_. What she could do at home as a Magister was far too important to the Imperiums's future. As much as Dorian would like it to be otherwise, Tevinter needed Magister Maeveris Tilani within its borders if anything was going to have even the slightest chance of being changed for the better.

But that didn't mean he didn't miss her company every single day.

She was the first person he had admitted the nature of himself to, and she, being a bit different herself, had always been sympathetic and supportive. In a bid to not burden her no doubt busy schedule with his troubles, he made a great effort not to whine, but it was hard. _Very_ hard. Well, alright, maybe he had whined just a _little._ He missed having somewhere to confide in about himself, someone with whom he could speak freely. Someone who _understood_. And damn it all he missed being well cared for too. He knew things would be different for him when he left everything behind, harder, but he didn't think he would struggle so much going from having mountains of wealth to relying on the hospitality of others for his day to day requirements. Perspective was valuable, he kept telling himself, but perspective didn't make his feet any warmer or his bed more comfortable to sleep in. _Wretched Frostbacks._

Iron Bull and Blackwall were more correct about him being a pampered Tevinter brat then he would ever allow them to know.

It was several more days of barely caught glances and clipped, boring conversation with Jack before Mae's reply found its way to him. With it, a package containing a lovely pair of blue woolen socks that he gleefully put on as soon as he'd ripped the box open. Now, curled cozy into his favorite library armchair, he eagerly read his friend's letter, paused, then read it three more times, certain words and phrases sticking out clearly. Mae advised _apologizing_ first of all, if Jack were truly not interested and if Dorian had any desire to maintain a working friendship, an apology would be a good place to start. But she also said something else that was curious: _'Really Dorian, you were never one to walk away from a challenge, I think you were exactly right in your assumptions. Now tell your darling Marcher barbarian that I said thank you for his support.'_

Interesting, and it wasn't as though Jack had explicitly said no had he? He had simply gone red in the face, bloody apologized to _Dorian_ , and run off in a tizzy.

 _A challenge_. Perhaps all Dorian needed to do was change the game, but first, an apology to start over.

 

=+=+=+=+=+=

 

The doorway to the Inquisitor's private quarters led to a rather lonely looking walkway against a portion of the keep that appeared to be in desperate need of repair. It was late evening, about the time when Jack would sequester himself into his room to not even be glimpsed until the following day. As often as Dorian teased him about it, the Ostwick noble had only slept in the stables once. Though, in Dorian's mind, once was far more than enough. A trio of ravens eyed the altus mage from their scaffolding perch and Dorian shivered uncomfortably. Bloody stupid castle was crumbling around them like an ugly, stale cake! It was _always_ freezing and Dorian wished for a blanket, or a robe, or a roaring fire, just... _something_ warmer. If this kept up he was going to find a way to light himself on fire safely for extended periods of time just to _survive_ here. Through the narrow windows, he observed the sky: dark and dreary. Andraste's arse, how could they _stand_ it?

The room door was a thick, old wood, and Dorian knocked on it, examining his fingers for slivers afterward. There was no answer, and, impatiently, Dorian kicked the bottom edge and the door creaked open a good few inches. As good an invitation as any, the mage supposed. He was greeted with icy air blowing in gusts down a steep stone staircase. At the top he saw the reason for the cold; the glass balcony doors were thrown wide open with snowflakes drifting in to dust in sparkling little piles upon the floor. Beside the sofa at the top of the stairs was a wicker basket that contained some blankets and two sleeping nugs. So, it seemed the little creepy handed, pink skinned creatures _hadn't_ been a drunken hallucination after all. _Unfortunate_. There were stacks of books piled in random locations upon the floor, a growing collection of empty mugs, coffee pitchers and other dirty dishes heaped upon any spare surface. In a word, Dorian was appalled. He never expected he would be so... _messy_. It was obvious that no Skyhold cleaning had staff ever set foot in here, and it was readily apparent that Jack simply didn't care about the state of his room. He probably asked the servants to steer clear personally.

The weak, flickering light of a dying fire provided the only means to see by, and lying upon the hearth of that stately fireplace was a rather concerning _person_ shaped lump. Dorian felt his heart leap into his throat at the realization. _Jack!_

He thought the man had collapsed of some ailment, but a hurried, closer inspection revealed that the stupid noble was only sleeping. On the fucking _floor_. He had wrenched the beautiful quilt free from his bed and curled himself up in it, still wearing the bizarre off-white outfit he always wore when not out in the wilderness. A pillow for his dark haired head the only other luxury the man allowed himself.

_Of all the stupid..._

Dorian sighed, relieved, but a little annoyed, and he stared at Jack. The rogue lay on his side, facing the fire, low flickering light playing over his features. His left hand that bore the fabled anchor was clenched into a fist, and held tight against his chest protectively. Even in sleep, the tendons in his arm shifted as he squeezed his hand and there was a hard, tense line to his shoulders. Dorian wondered if he'd always slept so tightly wound, or if it was just ever since the Fade had come along and kissed his palm that his nightly rest had become troublesome. The temptation to _do_ something with this rare opportunity, to _touch_ , reached out to Dorian, as it always did, and he swiftly crushed it, as he always must. The game he had played so many times before had different, unfamiliar rules now, it was best to proceed cautiously when the other party had since proven himself to be skittish.

But Dorian felt that he was _at least_ allowed a little bit of irritation. He'd thought the bastard was _dead_ for Maker's sake! The mage folded his arms crossly and toed the rogue's shoulder with his boot.

“Do all Ostwick nobles live like animals? Or is it just _you_?” Dorian asked loudly.

“Mwuh?” Jack twitched, stirred, then his eyes flew open as he jerked awake, sitting up quickly. “ _Dorian?!_ What are you- _How_ did you get in here?” He rasped, voice sleep rough and tired, movements slow and stretching. His white overcoat was missing, draped carelessly over a chair, and the ties of the loose tunic he wore had come open, exposing a defined chest, littered with dark hair.

_Hello. Strapping._

“Your door was unlocked. You know, I expect this sort of behavior from _peasants_ but you're of noble blood. I assume you southern nobles do have _beds_ do you not? This isn't a culture shock for you?”

“Shut up! You're not my _mother_!” Jack hissed miserably, dragging a hand through his hair and over his face, pulling the blanket in tightly around himself.

“And thank the Maker for that! You run yourself ragged every day and sleep in the cold, are you _trying_ to kill yourself? I'm sure your poor mother would wail in her misery, praying to the Maker every day for some sort of divine miracle to save you from your own stupidity!” Dorian stomped around him and closed each of the wide glass doors with a flourish and a snap, locking them securely. “So far you're doing marvelously. Shall I put a bridle on you and lead you back into the stables then, since you're so determined to live like a _beast_!”

“It is none of your _concern_ what I do.” The rogue growled at him, temper beginning to flare. The difference between the man's calmer moments and his anger were like night and day.

“Oh, so I should submit all my queries in writing then? Since you spend so much time tending to them.” Dorian spared a glance at a mountain of paperwork spilled upon Jack's desk. _Josephine has her work cut out for her, the poor girl_. “I eagerly await a charming visit from one of your darling advisers. Cullen perhaps? The poor thing always does get the _useless_ missions doesn’t he? Then I'll be spoon fed some sort of nonsense about you. I'm imagining it now. It's delightful, _truly_.”

“If it _pleases_ you Dorian, do whatever you like. I really don't care. _Leave me be!_ ” He barked, turning away from the mage in a huff.

“ _Fine_! Be cold. Get sick. _Freeze_ to death!” Dorian shot back, patience fraying. He was angry, yes. That wretched fucking barbarian could lay out in the snow and _freeze_ for all Dorian cared, just like he had before at Haven when he'd almost-

No. Dorian did not want to think about what _almost_.

The mage released a heated breath, anger dissipating. “For what it's worth, I came to _apologize_.” Dorian said quietly.

Jack sat cross legged upon the hearth, blanket tucked around him, the ends held tightly closed by that Fade marked hand he would not unclench. He was looking at Dorian, blue eyes large, his dark hair messy, and framing his face, and it wasn't _fair_ -

“Why?” The rogue asked, apparently confused.

 _What the fuck_ -

“ _Why_? For... _because_ I-” The mage released a soft noise of annoyance. What in the void was he playing at? Asking _why_? “I-I'm _sorry_ that's why! Now I'll _go_ and just... forget it! Try not to freeze to death alright?” Dorian said, leading himself back to the staircase so he could just leave and go curl up in bed.

“The bed's too soft.” Jack's voice reached him from across the room, quiet now, the anger gone.

“Pardon?” Dorian asked, turning back.

“The bed... I'm... used to sleeping on the ground. It's... the sound of the fire makes it easier to sleep.” Jack admitted shyly, looking down at his hand again. He seemed to do that an awful lot. Dorian wondered if it bothered him. He wondered if it hurt him. He wanted to know a lot _more_ about that mark, like if it would tingle on his mouth like Lyrium if he dragged his tongue across it.

“Are you sure you're not an elf with clipped ears? You can say, I promise I won't tell.” Dorian teased gently before he said something else.

“I'm sure.” Jack was looking at him again, with _those_ eyes. Did he not realize he was doing it? Dorian was upset before, but he did not _truly_ think Jack would be so cruel as to lead him on purposefully. The Tevinter mage strode back and cast a ball of fire into the fireplace with a flick of his wrist. The hearth, now roaring with magical flame, would stay burning for a long while yet.

“There. Your precious fire. Now go back to sleep.” Dorian said with a light bow and a smile and turned to leave again.

“Dorian?” Jack called to him from his place at the hearth.

“What is it? Don't tell me, you want a glass of water next? Or a story perhaps? I have many a tale of fantastic ribaldry to bring even your ancestors to shame.”

The Inquisitor was quiet for a moment, staring down at the floor. He drew his bottom lip into his mouth a little nervously. “It's nothing. Goodnight. Thank you.”

“Goodnight.” Dorian said and headed back to his own room.

Hm, _progress_. Perhaps Mae was right about this after all.

 


	5. Keep Your Friends Close

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know how the saying goes...
> 
> Some game dialogue used, with alterations so that it would not be boring.

_“The man of knowledge must be able not only to love his enemies but also to hate his friends.”_  
― Friedrich Nietzsche

 

 

Jack woke in a sweat, as he often did ever since he had received the Fade brand upon his left hand. His dreams had become frightfully vivid the past few weeks. In the delirium between dreaming and wakefulness, the barn owl statues that jutted forth from the walls of his quarters distorted to dragons, circling before their descent upon him, the cold air that blew in from the balcony became the ice that had nearly claimed his life. The darkness, the void. The fires burning in the hearth flickering to shape the light of the sky, flaming green and all consuming. A promise of the future, should they fail.

It had taken him some time before he could properly look at Sera, Cassandra, and Leliana without seeing the Red Lyrium infested shadows of themselves that they had become. Sometimes he still heard the Spymaster's words in his dreams before she cut Felix's throat.

 _I want the world back._ Seared into his mind.

If any single event other than the attack at Haven had crystallized the responsibility that had been placed upon him to save their future, the ordeal at Redcliffe had been it. The vision he had witnessed was a living nightmare, a future he refused to allow to come to pass. He did not ask for the anchor, but he had it now, and with it came the obligation to use it for good. He looked at it then in the late morning light. Still there, as it was every time he woke, burning bright in the wake of the dream. Hot like water that was just shy of burning his skin. _Two months_. It had been two months, and he was still not used to it, the burning sensation, the heat, the light, the _wrongness_ of it. It made his skin crawl but - _permanent_ \- he'd just have to get used to it now wouldn't he?

Jack wasn't sure which part of Redcliffe had been harder to believe, that he had traveled through time to a year in the future, or that it was a mage from _Tevinter_ that had helped him escape. Dorian had proven the truth of his intentions and the righteousness of his cause that day, but Jack was the only one who truly remembered what the mage had done for them.

There had been questions when he had welcomed the mage into the Inquisition, but no matter, Dorian had been earning his place ever since. The people at Skyhold would learn to accept him. And if not? At least Jack knew the truth of things. Dorian was here to help.

But what exactly that meant for Jack was... something else to think about. Something else that he tried very, very hard _not_ to think about.

The Inquisitor waited until the burning sensation in his hand became intolerable before he got up from the floor, leaving the blankets in a heap. He went outside to the balcony, the breathtaking view of the mountains sprawling before him. Snow had gathered on the railing and he gripped handfuls of it until his fingertips went numb and the burning finally lessened.

There was still so much to do, he had a lot to make up and atone for. Jack _had_ to make things right, if only to justify the lives lost. But first he needed to know with whom he worked with, Skyhold was a big place with a lot of people he was expected to talk to, and talk to them he had, but he was slowly beginning to realize that this was something he was going to have to keep up. He'd never enjoyed being social, but he would do it if it would help things run smoother. He had a responsibility to these people to see this through. He 'd accepted the title of Inquisitor and no longer scowled when they called him the Herald of Andraste, but now he'd have to live up to it. He couldn't hide himself away from them forever. He must force himself to become a symbol of hope if they were going to have any chance of salvaging the future.

Despite everything that sat upon him, he'd still overslept. _Too comfortable_ , he assumed. The magical fire Dorian had ignited in the fireplace the previous evening still burned and crackled merrily, Jack wondered how long it would last. It had been weeks but he still knew very little about Dorian, he knew more about _Sera_ for Maker's sake and she still hadn't even told him where she learned her bowskill.

Perhaps it would be best to start with the mysterious Tevinter mage? And maybe if people saw him talking to Dorian, they would accept his presence more? It was worth a try, Jack wasn't sure how far his influence would reach, but the thought of having so much say in how people behaved was a little troubling.

He found the man in the library, where he often saw him. Dorian was sprawled sideways in his favored chair, legs slung over the arm rest. A book lay open in his lap, the mage engrossed in reading. He looked up when Jack approached.

“He emerges!” Dorian exclaimed, “Don't anyone make any sudden movements or he'll bolt into the woods and we'll never see him again!” The mage addressed the library gleefully, while everyone tried to pretend the scene wasn't occurring, but at the same time, watching _very_ intently.

“How may I assist you Inquisitor?” The mage asked lightly, sliding a lavishly decorated bookmark into the tome he had on his lap, before closing it with a soft snap.

“It... occurred to me recently that I barely know anything about you.” Jack began hesitantly.

Dorian brightened, apparently eager to talk about himself. “Oh! We've traveled through time, acquired an alliance of rebel mages, survived the destruction of Haven, spent days traveling the countryside killing random strangers together, and we are only just _now_ getting to the questions?”

“Yes.”

“Hm, you know little of me beyond my name and my being a _mage_ from Tevinter?” Dorian continued, putting a needlessly dramatic air upon the word 'mage.'

“Correct.”

“And beyond my being so charming and well-dressed. Which is obvious to anyone.”

“Uhm?” Jack blinked rapidly and looked away. It was hard to forget that the man had tried to kiss him little over a week ago, he still felt confused about it all, hardly sure of what to think. He didn't know what Dorian wanted, or what he meant to get from him. People only ever showed interest in him when they wanted something. Usually it was his family's money, but Dorian came from a wealthy background too didn't he?

Dorian gave a brief whip crack flash of his teeth, “I suppose a better introduction is in order, now that we're not running for our lives. I am the scion of house Pavus, a product of generations of careful breeding, and the repository of its hopes and dreams.” He extended his hands with a flourish to encompass himself.

It was align with what he'd heard of Tevinter. Though most people in the south tried not to speak of the great mage empire at all. “So... you _are_ a Magister then?”

Dorian rolled his eyes and sighed, “I know it's all the same to you southerners but, no. I'm not. It's a bit like that frogs and toads saying with which you are no doubt familiar. All Magisters are mages, yes, but not all mages are _Magisters_. I am an _Altus_ mage. A supposed descendant of the first dreamers who walked physically in the Fade.”

“I... see. Forgive me, I don't... know a lot about _magic_ or anything like that.” Jack offered awkwardly, folding his arms behind his back.

“Why my dear Inquisitor, that's part of your _charm_.”

Jack ignored the comment, the teasing had been few and far between as of late, but that didn't mean it had stopped. “What do you mean... careful breeding?”

“Ahh, onto the _naughty_ subjects first, yes? Tevinter's families aren't exactly _families_ as you know them, more like a collection of desirable traits that are cobbled into a household together in a bid to produce perfection. My mother was chosen for my father because magic runs strongly in her blood. Never mind the fact that dear mummy and daddy _despised_ each other.” Dorian explained tersely, getting more comfortable in his chair.

“I'm sorry that... sounds like a lonely childhood.” Jack said unthinkingly, regretting it immediately.

“Quite.” Dorian said dismissively. “They wanted a son who could become Archon and who would make house Pavus the envy of the Imperium. They got me: a cautionary tale that you should be careful what you wish for.”

“You don't _like_ your homeland then?”

Dorian's easy expression fell away and he became serious and thoughtful. “On the contrary. I like my homeland a great deal.” He insisted. “There's so much potential, and yet the lies, the scheming, the illusions of superiority have poisoned the veins of my countrymen. I'm sure you're _very_ aware. That is where Tevinter is at fault.” Dorian explained. “Not everyone supports our delightful culture of towering falsities. I don't! Sadly, we're the minority.”

“I had no idea things were so dire. I imagined it to be some sort of mage paradise.” Jack said.

“I'm sure you're not alone in your fanciful imaginings.” Dorian drawled. Whether he was amused or annoyed, it was impossible to tell.

“Why is your family upset with you?”

“It's because I rejected their idyllic plan.” Dorian remarked, getting to his feet to put his book away and exchange it for another. “In order to take my father's place in the Magisterium, I would have to marry you see. Some wretched girl from a powerful family would be chosen for me and we would wither in marvelous unhappiness together, whilst I sired a good handful of miserable children to further the line of _plucky Pavus_. Sure, the catty passive aggressiveness might be fun for a time, but the charm of such games does have a tendency to depreciate. I _declined_ this honor, and thus it's best I'm far from home, less of an embarrassment that way.”

“I see, that... sounds rather _familiar._ I didn't mean to upset you.” Jack apologized, because he felt that was the proper thing to do. Josephine _had_ mentioned his manners could use a little work.

“I'm not upset.” Dorian assured him quickly. “ _I'm_ my favorite subject.”

“...Oh.” Jack fought the urge to sigh in annoyance.

The mage laughed heartily, “As much as I enjoy talking about myself, I think it's _my_ turn to ask the questions now! I know that _you_ are a noble from house Trevelyan which resides in Ostwick of the Free Marches, and I know that you have messy living habits, questionable taste in clothing, an appalling love for animals, an abysmal temper, an incredible shyness, and that you hold our entire future in the palm of your oddly glowing hand, but beyond that, I know nothing whatsoever!”

“ _Dorian_!” Jack spluttered in embarrassed rage.

“Oh dear, I've made it angry, I'll have to watch my fingers lest they be bitten off.”

“Stop it!” The rogue barked.

“And yet... it's so amusing.”

Jack still had questions of his own. _Why did you kiss me?_ _Why did you visit me? Why did you apologize?_ The questions lay coiled in his mouth, so heavy in his throat they were practically choking him. He could not ever ask them, he was afraid to know the answers.

Instead, he folded his arms defensively. “Why should I tell _you_ anything?!”

“Why should I have told you?” Dorian swiftly countered.

“Because! I... I have a _responsibility_ to know who is in the Inquisition.” Jack insisted hotly.

“And shouldn't I rightfully know at least the basics of who, precisely the Inquisitor _is_ before I commit myself to his cause?” The Altus mage argued.

Dorian had a point. The rogue thought about what he should say, he didn’t particularly enjoy talking about himself in any capacity. Jack sighed softly, while Dorian wore a rather smugly expectant expression.

_...Fair is fair._

“ _Fine!_ I am from Ostwick, and there I-I was home schooled-” Jack began.

Dorian made a soft, sympathetic noise. “Oh dear, that _does_ explain a lot.”

“ _What?!_ ”

“Nothing! Nothing, carry on.” Dorian said gently with a placating wave of his hand.

The Inquisitor released a hard breath through his nose. “My family is.. very _devout_ and heavily involved with the Chantry, know for their piety we-”

The mage made a slightly wounded sound. “Ooo...”

Jack glared at him, “Do you want to know or _not_?!” He snapped.

“ _Yes!_ Don't shout.” Dorian admonished.

“I... didn't know what I wanted to do with my life. We were expected to serve the Chantry in some way, but I spent a lot of time training under a master archer, and then a few years traveling between Ostwick and the Planasene Forest until I was asked to attend the peace talks at Haven... and the rest you know.”

“Well I don't know all of it now do I? I could have probably learned exactly what you told me from dear Josephine if I asked her sweetly enough. Probably even more. Much of what happened at Haven is still a rather fascinating mystery, even to you. Though doesn't that just make you the most interesting man in Skyhold?” The mage teased, idly thumbing through book pages.

“You mentioned that my plight sounded familiar as though you have lived it.” Dorian continued. “Did you have similar marital dealings in your house?”

“My choices were few. Either go into service of the Chantry or marry a woman from another noble house to continue the line. I... didn't want to do that. I don't know. I wasn't _sure_.” Jack admitted curtly.

“Searching for the many delights of true love are we Trevelyan?” The Tevinter native teased.

Jack felt the blush bloom on his face, it was impossible to control and this angered him more than anything. “Perhaps you should learn to mind your own business?” He growled.

“Just like you then? Always with the questions, tsk tsk, what _will_ people say?” Dorian asked lightly, smirking.

“Do you always answer a question with another question?”

“Only when it suits me. I have so many of them, but I fear you won't answer.”

“It seems you do little else but what _suits_ you Dorian.” The Inquisitor spat.

“Ah, truer words were never spoken!”

Jack was left standing there rather awkwardly with Dorian gazing at him with a peculiar little smile on his face that made the rogue a bit nervous. The anger swiftly dropped away and he clenched his marked hand tightly until it ached up to the wrist, feeling terribly self conscious.

A woman approached him suddenly, from the nearby stone staircase. “Inquisitor ser, you're needed in the War Room.”

_Oh thank the bloody Maker._

“I-I should go.” Jack said quickly.

“Very well, though I _do_ rather like watching you leave.” Dorian said in his final barb of the day before he suggestively licked his finger, then turned another page of the book in his lap.

Jack backed away from him. He couldn't decide if he _hated_ Dorian or... _Maker's breath_ , if he wanted them to _kiss_ again.

He felt muddled and angry the rest of the day, and after a brief meeting in the War Room that left a bad taste in his mouth, Jack went outside to the archery targets and loosed arrow after arrow into them until they resembled flattened, red and white porcupines.

 

 


	6. Crestwood, A Town Submerged Part I: Going Native

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian is a child. A miserably wet child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Varric is surprisingly difficult to get right.

_“The more I see of what you call civilization, the more highly I think of what you call savagery!”_  
― Robert E. Howard, _King Kull_

 

 

Wet. It was wet. Everywhere they went was wet. Wet mud exuded the stench of wet rot. Wet dead things stumbled after them, to collapse twice as dead in decomposing, wet detritus. The whole package wrapped up in a foggy, wet embrace. Dorian hated being wet unless he was in a hot bath, and Crestwood was about the furthest one could be from warmth and cleanliness. It was almost as bad as the Storm Coast. Almost. At least there was no nauseatingly tipping sea to look at, swelling like the sour alcohol had in his gut when he'd heaved over the side of the ship for the third time. That had been his first boat ride, out of the lovely port at Val Royeaux, and hopefully, Maker preserve, his _last_. Semi-solid ground was a small mercy, but he'd take what he could get.

Dorian's shin ached from where he'd slipped on some kind of slimy nastiness and skinned it on a rock. He'd drifted off the road to take a closer look at a native perennial shrub that was familiar to him from Tevinter cultivars. He'd just enough time to identify it as a common Heather ( _Calluna vulgaris_ ) when he'd fallen ungracefully and scraped from his shin to his kneecap. Tripped over his “skirt” Iron Bull had teased while Varric had laughed right along, helping Dorian to his feet. The mage refused to dignify either of them with an answer, and if he concentrated hard enough, the limp was hardly noticeable. Their fearless leader was all lean muscle wrapped in tailored leather that sported a brass medallion, displaying the sword sheathed in a sunburst eye that had become so familiar. Jack's hair was slicked straight to his head with the rainwater like a curtain of black oil. He was utterly oblivious to Dorian's plight and apparently the weather, not even pausing to wipe away beads of water that dripped from the tip of his nose as he spoke to the requisition officer. His eyes were hard and dark, but he smiled at little scout Harding while they chatted about this wretched little shithole of a region. _Smiled_. And in that moment, Dorian hated him just a little. He turned away from the nauseatingly adorable scene before his meager meal of traveler's gruel turned on him.

That the Tevinter Altus mage was unhappy was an understatement. His socks were wet now, the mud sunk so deep on an earlier path that it had sucked his boot right off his foot. His hair had long since gone wet and limp on his head despite the hood he wore as a piss-poor attempt at protection from the elements. His once perfect hair was soggy, falling into his eyes no matter how many times he roughly scrubbed a hand through it.

Mostly, he was angry because he had seen Jack direct that sultry, blue-inferno gaze of his upon Josephine the week before, cementing in his head that their dear Inquisitor was just a bloody, clueless twat after all, making heated 'come hither' eyes at everyone around him without temperance or distinction. Even if it had only been _two_ souls Dorian had seen that stare settled upon, and even if it _was_ Dorian on the receiving end far more often than their sweet ambassador, he still felt indignantly slighted, and frankly it left a sour taste in his mouth. Though that very well could have been the fetid, green hued corpse air feathering its way between his tightly gritted (thankfully still perfect) teeth.

He would not sulk over the loss of something that had barely existed to begin with, he simply would not. Maybe slightly. Alright, alright he was sulking _a lot_.

Their little party had been out for days doing this and that, mostly little things to help out, fetching a bundle of missing Elfroot here or lighting a bear on fire there. This was the longest they had spent away from their new base of operations and Jack was happy, or as happy as Dorian had ever seen him, his face didn't change much, and no one else seemed to complain. All for the good of it yes? But Dorian couldn't help feeling like he was little more than a glorified, well-dressed servant. Is _this_ what he'd left Tevinter for? Running errands for farmers and killing undead? They hadn't seen hide nor hair of any Venatori forces, but it had been raining lumpy red Lyrium riddled templars left and right just like this wretched, well _rain_. No matter how nice it was to help people in need, spreading the good word of the Inquisition on top of showing that _yes_ , Tevinter had bred compassionate people too, Dorian tried to feel like he wasn't wasting his time.

At least the servants back home were able to sleep _indoors._

It almost made Dorian try to come up with an alternative to trudging about through the dregs of life, the bottom of the barrel of human existence that writhed in a mud patty smack dab in the middle of sweaty, smelly Ferelden. The only alternative was to crawl back home to Tevinter, head hung low, the disgraceful pariah, an embarrassment to everyone around him, and _that_ wasn't an alternative at all. He quickly reminded himself why he was here, why he had given up almost everything to be _here_. The Venatori. His father. Alexius. Felix. His _home_. Better to be in the fold than out in the wilds? For a _sheep_ , that is, he thought. No, for better or worse, he was here to stay for as long as it took to make things right, but that didn't mean he had to love every second. He sniffed miserably, his nose running like a faucet and rubbed at his eyes, eyeliner no doubt smearing thick over his lids.

Dorian tried very, very hard not to look at The Iron Bull, which was quite difficult since the Qunari warrior was massively large, often in his line of vision, and never seemed to wear a shirt. The arrogant lummox would grin, flexing and flaunting himself purposefully whenever he caught the mage staring, and Dorian would gag audibly before looking away. This didn't mean he couldn't daydream about hard rolling muscles under foreign grey skin, beastly arms hefting and swinging Dorian's weight in an axe, or tanned, corded arms that flexed back, hard as steel, and practically carved out of wood. Cut shoulder blades not quite meeting, then arrows loosing with liquid power and the barest bat of a dark, feathered eyelid.

Daydreams did nothing to chase away the cold damp that wormed its way deeper through skin, through muscle then bone, frosting right into his heart. Dorian heaved a small sigh and Varric gave him a knowing glance, the corners of his mouth quirking up. Blessedly, the dwarf said nothing.

They wandered far from their initial camp and made it to Crestwood village proper by nightfall, if the ever present shroud of thundering darkness blanketing the land could have at any time been called day. A trail of soggy corpses and crumbling, moss covered rock walls marked the way behind them. There were few people about, their poverty stricken faces dour, dirty, and scowling at them whilst they flitted between one boarded up hovel and the next. The hastily blockaded windows leaked pale firelight into the gloom. Dorian's boots were no longer a color he recognized, and in the distance, the lake swelled and undulated, lapping gently upon the shore. The sickly green hue of the exposed rift hovered about a mile out into the deep, black waters like an unseasonable show of Northern Lights.

He tried not to think about words like 'warm' or 'dry' as pining over such fantastical impossibilities could drive even the most reasonable of men to rashness.

But, in a show of his most _divine_ mercy, Jack secured for them a small home, abandoned and set up for their use that evening by the good and miserable Mayor of dumpy Crestwood. By this point, Dorian was so tired, and cold, and hungry from traipsing about in the miserable damp that his hands trembled, teeth chattering alongside them. He stuffed wood into the open mouth of the wood stove and conjured a fire. It hissed upon the (of course it was damp) wood, sparks spilling out in his carelessness to get heat as quickly as possible. Packs were set down and rifled through, bedrolls set up in their respectively claimed corners, and plans were briefly discussed for the following morning as to illuminate the best way to deal with the problem of the rift. Dorian hung his poor, mud soaked socks by the stove, along with everything else he could bear to remove from his person to dry, then curled into his blanket in a sulk and flung petulance at anyone who spoke to him. He would take his pleasures where he could get them thank you very much.

Jack disappeared with an annoyed sound onto the plains in the encompassing dark with Iron Bull, both of them vanishing like shadows into the streets, then gone onto the moorland, its surface flattened by a wind that moaned like the accompanying rising dead. Hunting for food they'd said. With no hunting skills to speak of, this left Dorian alone to guard their things and bond with the dwarf. Delightful.

Dorian grumbled to himself, unwilling to converse, and nibbled at some bits of day old bread and a lump of cheese to try to soothe the gnawing hole in his gut while he waited for their Inquisitor and his meat shield to return, hopefully with something more substantial to eat. There was little in the way of food to buy in Crestwood, the people had barely enough to feed themselves as it was and could not afford to spare or even sell any of their precious stores to strangers. The Altus mage tried to remember to feel grateful, even as the bread pulled moisture from his mouth and the strange southern cheese left a sour coating on his tongue. He refused to whine. He had _some_ perspective after all. He sent a bit of fire magic into the blanket clutched around him, it would not last forever, and he could not afford to exhaust himself by constantly renewing it, but it would provide some relief from his discomfort. He sighed again and made an attempt to mentally scrape together what remained of his dignity.

“I still can't believe he took that great, blundering oaf out hunting with him.” Dorian found himself muttering, still a bit sore about it all.

“And here I thought you'd be happy to sit inside on your ass while someone else did the work for you.” Varric's amused whiskey voice rumbled over to him from where the dwarf sat leisurely, a journal open in his lap. “Tiny can be very quiet when he wants to be, he is a spy after all, and besides, he's good at killing things, probably best to just let him get it out of his system.” A solitary lantern lit the pages of the dwarf's journal while he scribbled away, no doubt penning some nonsense about spoiled Tevinter Magisters and their evil blood magicked socks, scheming the lot of them to ruin.

Dorian huffed, sulking, and pulled the blanket up further to come over the top of his head, mussing his hair certainly, but warming his ears delightfully. “ _I'm_ good at killing things.” He mumbled, feeling it was well within his right to be a little childish.

Varric only laughed. This made his mood blacken further.

“So Sparkler. How's the weather been treating you?” Varric continued, apparently inclined towards conversation.

“I had noticed a slight chill.” Dorian replied testily. “And here I was thinking that nothing could properly distract me from the rather unique odor of soggy rot, yet frostbite has suddenly acquired a certain charm. Fascinating really.”

“A shaft of light in the darkness.” Varric responded with an agreeable nod.

“You make it sound so poetic.”

“I've been known to spin a few yarns.”

“I confess I rather enjoy the _'Swords and Shields'_ scarf you've knitted.” Dorian remarked.

“More like an ugly sweater, but ah, becoming a bit more Ferelden in your tastes I see? Who would have thought.”

“Now, now. I've not turned feral yet. At least _I_ don't sleep in the stables.” He eyed the bed-less, one room house that sheltered them with barely concealed disdain. “Though the dirty floor of a leaky shack is almost as bad.”

“Fluffy has his comforts, as does every man who carries a heavy weight.” Varric offered cryptically.

“ _Fluffy_?” Dorian smiled and shook his head. It was amusing to picture. “I'm sure he'll love that.”

“Took me some time to settle on it but I think it has a nice ring. Anyway, _'Swords and Shields'_ is hardly my best work. It's a trash novel, not worth the paper it's printed on.” Varric shifted in his chair and closed his journal, wrapping the twine that held it shut with practiced motions.

“Ah, I thought I felt something slipping away as I read it, that must have been a modicum of my intelligence.” Dorian said dryly.

“Or it could have been a leak of sentimental 'frippery?' You look full to bursting.” Varric needled with false sympathy.

“All of my _frippery_ is in its proper place thank you.” The mage answered curtly, making another attempt to fix his hair. He wished for a mirror, but alas, he'd left his travel sized one at home and had yet to afford a proper replacement.

“Oh? Isn't there a certain someone who's caught your eye?” The Dwarf teased. “Dark hair, broody, about your height? Ring any bells?”

Dorian froze and felt the familiar dregs of the panicked _'I've been caught'_ sensation reaching up to grab and humiliate him again. He regained his composure quickly, but the feeling still lingered hotly in his chest. It could have been a remnant of how he felt when his father had first found out. A shard of shame still left behind to bleed him. He was supposed to have overcome this and found acceptance and pride within himself for who he really was. It was foolish of him to still feel it so, cutting in when he least expected it, but feel it he did.

“I fail to see how that's any of _your_ business Varric!” He snapped angrily.

“Ok, ok! Don't let your feathers get ruffled. Just thought I'd try to offer a little friendly observation from a storyteller's point of view.” The dwarf said with a casual, placating wave of his hand.

“And what astute observation is _that_?” Dorian asked crisply, his curiosity getting the better of him. Did Varric know something he didn't?

“No. I know when I've overstepped my bounds. I'll leave it be.” The dwarf said, playing the part of the wounded party to perfection

Dorian frowned with miffed indecision. He wanted more information, and he didn't want to pander to Varric's personal amusement anymore than he'd already had, _but_ -

He sighed heavily. “...Alright, what do you know?”

“I'm sorry, what was that? I must have dropped off for a moment, because for a second there I thought I heard you asking for my advice. It was probably just a dream.”

Dorian screwed his face up in frustrated displeasure and cursed, almost spitting, “ _Fasta Vaas_ Varric! Dwarves don't dream, and you know it! If you aren't going to tell me then you can just-”

“Fluffy. It _is_ Fluffy isn't it?” Varric interrupted, a light smile crossing his features. He apparently saw something confirming in Dorian's face, then nodded with satisfaction. “I thought so. I'll let you in on a little secret Sparkler. Our beloved Inquisitor seems to have a tendency to bite the hand that feeds him, so to speak. Not out of viciousness mind you, but in self defense.”

The Altus mage frowned and let that knowledge work its way into his head. “You say that like he's fearful of something.”

“People. When you spend a lot of time by yourself, people become foreign and hard to wrap your head around. It's just you and all of _them_. Look at Chuckles, all swept up in his dreams, spirits and fallen empires. No people skills at all. All I'm saying is you don't act that way unless you have a little bit of tragedy hiding in your closet.” The dwarf explained patiently, his voice a relaxed drawl.

“Speaking of your own personal wardrobe perhaps Varric? There are some v-necked tragedies residing in there surely.” Dorian barbed.

“I... know a guy who knows an elf.” Varric said offhandedly. “How about this, five silvers says that if you change your approach you'll see results, and if I'm wrong... well, it seems you'll win something either way.”

“There's nothing wrong with my approach, I'm very approachable!” Dorian argued, offended.

Varric laughed, a wheezed chuckle that reverberated warmly like the heat from the fire. “For someone like him? About as approachable as Iron Bull's yellow striped pants.”

Dorian momentarily visualized the abhorrent garment, recalling the other times he had seen them, usually bright and glaring, then following him into his nightmares when Iron Bull was not within visual range. “...You've got the right of it there I suppose.” Anyone with working eyes could see that. He gave a rather indignant snort. “ _Fine_! I'll take that bet.” He said with a smile, he didn't have much in the way of coin yet, but he would spare a little here, gladly, if Varric was right.

“Wonderful. Now you can stop sighing in his general direction.”

“I don't _sigh_ -”

At that moment the door opened to admit the wall of Iron Bull's blood spattered torso, barely fitting through the narrow doorway. Even as the great warrior ducked his head, his great horns scraped the archway forcefully. When the Qunari stood tall again, his face was all smiling vigor. Hm, it was something elses blood then. Jack followed the warrior inside, his clothes soaked through with cold rain, hair pushed back from his face. A string of three, soggy looking brown birds slung over the curve of one shoulder. There was water glittering on his skin and when their eyes briefly met, something in Dorian's belly did a gentle flip. Something that may or may not have been a spark of renewed hope.

Not that he'd ever tell Varric.

“I take it your evening jaunt was successful?” Dorian spoke up to cover his pounding heart.

“A hearty stag for the townsfolk, quails for us.” Jack answered calmly, peeling his coat off his shoulders, along with several other pieces of armor until he was in nothing but a simple tunic. Dorian's mouth watered at the sight, or it could have been the mention of proper food igniting all sorts of stagnant hungers within him.

“Did you see their faces when I laid it out in the town square? Never seen people so happy to have a dead deer.” Iron Bull exclaimed cheerfully, then seated himself heavily upon the floor.

“Happy to have _food_ surely. But I believe their expressions were because the poor beast's head had separated from its shoulders on it's way to the ground. Did you really need to strike it so hard?” The Inquisitor asked, tone lightly admonishing whilst he undid the knots that held the dead birds to the rope one by one.

“A quick death is a merciful one, Boss. Speed and force often go hand in hand.” Bull explained calmly.

“Yes. It was... good of you. I missed the killing shot. Cold fingers perhaps. Better that it didn't suffer.” Jack said, appearing a bit upset with himself. Yet for all his love of beasts he stripped the birds of their feathers with precise, practiced quickness, keeping all the feathers in a bag for... some _other_ purpose. Dorian assumed it would be too much to hope it was for feather pillows. The rogue produced a very sharp looking, faintly curved dagger and gutted the animals quickly, Varric working with him to make everything go faster. It was a little nauseating to see their blood, hearts and livers spilling out into a carefully placed pot, the unwanted intestinal bits tossed outside to the dogs. Dorian had never quite been privy to the entire preparation process before, and was a little fascinated by it, even as it wounded his appetite.

Iron Bull sat proudly upon the floor, bloodied chest and all, and he drew a cloth from his waistband and wiped a clean path over the curve of his axe, fussing over the heavy blade as one might over a much loved pet. Even though Bull was also doing nothing of any real import, Dorian still felt out of place and useless among them.

After a time, they ate, and Dorian was so hungry, positively starved now that he'd sat with the odor of roasting meat in his nostrils that he ate with his fingers, uncaring, and scarfing desperate mouthfuls, all the while working through the disgust of watching Bull lick grease from his fingers. The scent of brewing coffee filled the shack, and belly full with warm food, Dorian felt a little sliver of contentment for the first time in days.

But Varric and Bull were smirking at him, the Inquisitor playing at being oblivious to it as he ate. “Is there some jest I'm missing out on?” Dorian asked tersely, looking for a spare bit of fabric to wipe his fingers on.

“I was expecting a pampered Vint like you to eat with your pinky fingers sticking out like this.” Iron Bull teased, then mimed it for him, putting on a rather prissy expression that looked simply ridiculous on the battle scarred warrior. Dorian grit his teeth, feeling his face heating with embarrassment and anger.

“What was that about not turning feral Sparkler?” Varric spoke up.

The mage groaned and rolled his eyes, tired of it all. “ _Yes, yes!_ Everyone's so bloody fucking hilarious! Ha ha ha and all that.” He spat, scrubbing his hands furiously on his trouser legs, likely no napkins for miles. Hundreds of miles. Fucking southern _rathole_ savages.

But then Jack pushed a mug of something wonderfully hot into Dorian's frozen, still slightly greasy fingers. It was Coffee. Rich and black, and Dorian tried not to wish for cream and raw sugar to lighten and sweeten it, afraid they might somehow scent out his pampered desires like mocking bloodhounds. The corners of Jack's mouth curved upward in amusement, then he smiled at Dorian, his eyes bright in the firelight, and _well_ , that was something.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone was curious, here's my Inquisitor: http://zooheaded.tumblr.com/post/104748530440/finally-some-proper-screenshots-of-my


	7. A Marked Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jack lounges upon the silken settee of his own bitterness.

“ _Be the change that you wish to see in the world.”_  
― Mahatma Gandhi

 

 

“ _I wish I could get rid of it.”_ Jack had said to Cassandra when she'd asked of the Mark in Haven.

“ _We have need of it still.”_ She had replied because of course she had. It was the Mark they desired. _The Anchor_. That he was attached to it was an inconvenient afterthought.

It wasn't that he didn't want to help, that was why he had come to the peace talks with his overbearingly pious relatives after all. He'd wanted to do something to help the apostates for his sister's sake, even though it had hardly mattered for her then, just as it didn't matter for her now. He had crawled out from the woods at the insistence of his parent's letter to try to do one last thing before disappearing entirely, and of course, the meeting couldn't have gone more wrong. At least now his new handful of influence had given the mages a safe place to go, but he'd also thought the same thing of Haven at the time. Skyhold was large, fortified and remote, but no fortress was impenetrable, especially when their self-proclaimed enemy employed a _dragon_.

It was _good_ to help though. It was good to hand off a supply of blankets and ram meat to the refugees in the Hinterlands so that they would not freeze or starve. He could close the rifts, he could make a dent in the bandits that terrorized the people. _Together_ , the Inquisition was doing good, but they had yet to do anything to deal that _demon_ Corypheus a blow of any real significance. They had taken the mages from his grasp, yes, and he had Dorian's timely intervention (figuratively and literally) to thank for that but Corypheus had only replaced the rebel mages with the Templars. How many of those Templars were Trevelyans? He couldn't say. The beast had not won at Haven true, but neither had they, and now Skyhold crumbled around them under the weight of its own antiquity whilst they scrambled like drowning rats to turn it into something that at the very least resembled a functional base.

It was good to _help_ , but he was no leader. He didn't have the drive for it. He was not good at being a symbol of hope for others and hardly fit the image of a holy savior, more closely resembling some backwoods ranger. He could hardly bear to have people tell him over and over again what an inspiration he was for being in the wrong place at the right time, how he had been sent by the divine hand of Andraste herself, and frankly, if he heard someone call him _'your worship'_ one more time he was going to be sick. More than anything he wanted to be left alone, not that what he wanted had ever mattered. He'd been in chains at Haven for his supposed role in the death of the Divine, but even his exoneration had not released him. He had only exchanged his shackles for another set, these invisible yet growing heavier by the day.

But he had never gotten much from complaining, even if it was only to himself. Change was not built upon wishes after all, but it should not be built upon a foundation of corpses either. As much as he'd disliked his relatives, he had not wished death upon them. They did not deserve what had happened and neither had anyone else who had been present. Just as he did not deserve to be the only one to walk away from it. And _no one_ had deserved Haven except for him, but he'd have to spend the rest of his life making up for that now wouldn't he?

Better to endure this than let the world fall to ruin. He'd accepted the title of Inquisitor and the responsibility that followed. He'd made his bed, and now he had to lie in it, even if he _did_ prefer the floor.

Now he sat in front of their pretty Antivan ambassador's desk staring at a mountain of paperwork as though it were a pile of blind writhing maggots. She'd called him here so that they might go through the stack of letters from his family together, he was frightfully out of practice in handling these sorts of things, and as much as he dreaded dealing with it, the growing pile of mulberry colored envelopes could no longer be ignored. He struggled to keep an expression of bitter unhappiness from smearing his features, if only for Josephine's sake.

He tried not to look directly at all of the letters addressed to _'Lord Jackin Trevelyan'_ written in curving flourishes and sealed with gold and red wax. Others were addressed to 'The Herald of Andraste' and some were for Josephine, but the familiar seal of the swooping bird all spoke of the Free Marches. He thought fervently about all the things he would rather be doing at this moment, like perhaps shooting himself in the foot with an arrow, or getting trampled by an angry horse.

He admired Josephine's patience, along with her charisma and beauty. Three traits he would never possess. His family's motto _'Modest in Temper, Bold in Deed'_ could not have applied to him less.

“I have organized them in order of immediate family and location, I'd assumed you'd prefer to answer any queries from your mother and father first?” Josephine explained, arranging the piles into neat stacks.

“Thank you.” He said, and meant it. If he'd been charged with the task he might have just burned them all.

“The first-” Josephine began, slitting the topmost letter open with a small, well-used, silver letter opener. “-From Mrs. Trevelyan. It appears to be a list of marriage candidates for your consideration... from here to _Nevarra_...” She trailed off sympathetically as they both watched the paper unfold itself several times over, the parchment full to bursting with name after name of pledged daughters, offered up like bowls of fruit. Baubles and trifles. He felt the barely-there tingle of the Mark fluttering pins and needles over his palm. He squeezed his hand into a tight fist until it hurt properly.

“Tell her, no, thank you.”

“Not even a glance?” Josephine pressed, not entirely pleased with his hurried dismissal.

“No.”

A light sigh, “Very well.” She busied herself with penning a reply that was far longer than what he'd said. Distracted, he watched an orange tabby cat uncurl itself from its place in front of the fire, only to turn inward again, its paws stretched to touch the tips of the hearth. With the number of issues to tackle growing by the day, he could rest easy knowing that at least the _mouse_ problem was under control. When Josephine had finished she smiled at him warmly, but it did not help him to feel any better. He knew he was frowning but... he couldn't help it. He signed the letter for her without bothering to read what she had written, the pretty feather quill feeling much too small in his fingers, and they moved onto the next one.

There was at least one letter from every family member he knew of, and a great many that he didn't, they were either congratulating him for doing the Maker's work or clamoring for his attention, the words that poured from their poison pens all casually slighting various family members in a bid to win his favor, because of _course_ they wanted him now. Now that he _mattered_. It was so utterly predictable, so entirely expected that he could have almost preemptively written their letters for them. There were several more from his mother, asking if there were any names on the list that struck his fancy, asked several different times in several different ways. He could almost _hear_ her fretful nagging, the tight frown that would worm its way onto her face when he would refuse to answer, her hands wringing, eyes moistening with tears in her exasperation and unhappiness. The memory of his guilt over hurting her was strong enough to cause a knot to form in his stomach. It was better that he was far from home.

There was not a single letter from his father among the pile. As he expected. Why would there be? The Inquisition did not serve the Chantry, and he was unmarried. For all his good deeds, he had yet to live up to his _true purpose_. Why expect anything other than indifference?

There was a letter from his younger brother Robert, the only person that had bothered to inquire about his well being, as well as a paragraph gloating about how good he had gotten at fencing. He told Josephine he'd reply to it personally and give it to her the following morning.

The cat rolled leisurely onto its back, holding its paws up close on its chest like a harbor seal, its belly angled toward the fire.

Josephine prattled on. He nodded in the right places and maintained eye contact where appropriate but he was too busy trying not to let bitter resentment swallow him to truly listen to her. Her accent was soothing though, her voice pleasant and she seemed very aware of how miserable he was about the whole thing, moving through each letter as quickly as possible and only prompting him for his signature.

Saying 'no' to every other inquiry had became automatic until she was suddenly laughing, snapping him back to reality.

“Sorry?”

"I said it is unusual combination." Josephine replied, a little smile on her face.

"What is?"

"Dark hair and blue eyes. It is not common. I have met many Trevelyans but all those with dark hair had borne dark eyes as well."

"Oh. I suppose it is. Unusual, I mean." He'd been told as much before. His father had light hair and blue eyes, perhaps he'd inherited it somehow. He rarely gave it any thought, if anything it only made him stand out from his family more.

"It's very pretty."

Uhm.

“Oh.”

 _You're_ very pretty was the first stupid thing that came to mind that he couldn't (wouldn't) say. She _was_ pretty. The way her hair came loose from her bun and lay at the back of her neck. Her delicate wrists, the way her brow furrowed when she read. He shouldn't stare. Dorian was pretty too, in ways that seemed unfair, in a way that made him feel a twinge of jealousy, to be so well put together. Like he shouldn't have existed. Of course this made that Kiss, capitalized and locked away inside his head, all the more puzzling. He'd seen Dorian playfully flirting with women countless times. Surely he could have any of them? Anyone he wanted at all. Not someone like him. Had it been a jest? And yet... he'd seemed so hurt when Jack had pulled away, had even apologized that night in his quarters. Jack was usually unshaven, he had a large nose that had been broken twice. He had hard features, all gawky elbows and knees with hands that were too big to be delicate. He was not pretty.

Not like Josephine or Dorian. Hazel eyes and butter soft skin. Easy smiles and smokey eyes. He had to wonder if he didn't have a type.

It was rude to stare. But it was hard not to.

It was the first compliment he'd received in a long time. Dorian did not count because he spread compliments and smiles around like chicken feed. They didn't feel real to him. Josephine seemed sincere and she was smiling, and she was so _pretty_.

He blushed right up to his ears and in the end he had to look away to thank her.


	8. Crestwood, A Town Submerged Part II: Pisswood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Southerners build taverns in strange places.

_“The rain to the wind said,_  
 _You push and I'll pelt.'_  
 _They so smote the garden bed_  
 _That the flowers actually knelt,_  
 _And lay lodged--though not dead._  
 _I know how the flowers felt.”_  
― Robert Frost

 

 

Something woke him in the middle of the night, a sound perhaps, or his own perpetual uneasiness. Dorian had never slept very well on the ground in the cold. In the _south_. He blinked drowsily in the darkness, the fire long since burnt out. All was still and quiet but for the sound of rain. He had expected Iron Bull to snore at least, but the Ben-Hassrath spy was a silent mass of resting muscle on the other side of the room. Someone had thrown more blankets over him, the weight was heavier and he was unbelievably grateful for that. Dorian realized he felt warm, dry, and, dare he say it, _comfortable_ for the first time since they'd left Skyhold. A shaft of foggy moonlight fell through the tiny rain splattered window, the glass filthy to match the frowning plebeian faces that had had once stared out of it. Dorian sighed and burrowed deeper into his blankets, determined to fall back asleep.

Out of the corner of his eye he noted movement. A flicker of emerald light forming the shape of a hand, hovering in the air like a disembodied apparition. He followed the palm of the glowing hand to a wrist, then an arm, and all the way to the shadowed face of their tireless Inquisitor. He was not looking at Dorian, or anyone else asleep in the room, but instead gazing passively at his marked hand, then out the window from his position on the floor. Dorian didn't know why Jack was awake, and didn't ask, opting to try to go back to sleep rather than start an awkward late night conversation. Though it was comforting to know that at least _someone_ was on night watch, the mage hoped that staying up late would not contribute to any wretchedness of temper the following day.

He gazed at the rogue at his leisure, and eventually dozed off again to the oddly soothing sound of pattering rain.

 

=+=+=+=

 

Like a particularly irritating instance of _d_ _éjà vu_ (as the Orlesians say), when Dorian woke again, it was to the sound of rain. But this time there was considerably more light and the lilt of voices engaged in hushed conversation. Dorian kept his eyes closed, unwilling to acknowledge the day of mud and cold and shambling dead things that no doubt awaited him outside his warm cocoon of blankets.

All too soon, a hand was on his shoulder, gently shaking him to full wakefulness. Dorian blinked his eyes open and met familiar blue, Jack's head leaning over his. The closeness of him evoking the scent of skin and outdoors, and for a moment Dorian thought about how easy it would be to hook an arm around that exposed neck and drag the rogue down to meet their mouths. The gaze of the rogue was heavy, as though he had seen straight through the mage's idle fantasies and just _knew_ , and that briefly paralyzed them both. But Jack didn't even know the half of it, because Dorian was imagining his back against a defined chest, skin a warm chestnut, arrow worn fingers trailing down his naked hip- but Jack looked away, moved back into a crouch, and the spell was broken, dispelled, and barriers conjured up anew. Dorian still felt the after burn diffusing low in his belly. The game beginning again.

“That time already?” Dorian said, groggy and chilled by the raw, misty (wet) air when he sat up. He at least felt much refreshed from yesterday. Jack crouched next to him patiently while he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, a mug of something hot gripped in each hand. The Altus mage ran a quick hand through his hair, knowing that it was mussed beyond all reason from his head being mashed into the feeble pillow all night, perhaps a bit of dampness would allow him to put it to rights.

“What... time is it exactly?” The mage asked curiously whilst he put himself to rights.

“Early.” Jack replied curtly, expression arranged into perfect passivity.

Dorian released a soft breath and tried not to become irritated. “How precise of you. _Early_ 'o clock it is then.”

Jack fixed him with a distasteful expression, his eyes were a little bloodshot and he looked wretchedly tired. Seems they were in for a pleasant day of barked orders and scowls then. Delightful.

In Tevinter, Dorian had grown used to seeing elaborate time keeping mechanisms at every turn. The wealthier the family, the more elaborate the clocks. Great ticking towers jutted up from the center of market squares, the symbol of the four basic elements lined at each quarter. At nearly every waking moment he could know the precise hour of the day. Even his bedroom at home had ticked softly, a torsion pendulum clock set upon his nightstand. A gift from his father on his tenth birthday. Each spinning weight a curved golden fish and he remembered watching it rotate before he would fall asleep every night, the sound of the whirring metal and the ticking soothing, golden fish following him into his dreams. Now the thought of fish swimming swiftly through clear waters made him nauseous, but even still, since he'd left home it had been hard to sleep without that rhythmic sound. He'd begun to grow used to it. Merely another one of the great many things he had been forced to become used to in the recent months.

Another mug of coffee was set in front of him, but Dorian thought he would likely get a sour stomach if he drank the grainy black stuff so soon after waking, so he politely declined. Instead he ate cold quail meat as delicately as could be managed with his fingers, and if he happened to hold his pinkies out just a little, well, Iron Bull wasn't here to point that out to him was he?

Where _was_ that grey lummox anyway?

Dorian heard familiar barbaric grunts and the heavy thunks of something blunt striking another blunt thing and guessed the large Qunari warrior was chopping wood outside to feed their pathetic fire later. Magical flame could only burn for so long with nothing to fuel it after all, though Dorian seriously doubted that anything from such a wet place would ever properly burn again.

Jack opted to keep both coffee cups, holding one in each hand. He drank from one, and then the other unthinkingly as he and Varric talked about Crestwood's little issue.

Immediately feeling left out, Dorian spoke up. “ _So_ , troublesome Fade rift, big dark lake, horrible undead abominations crawling out of the water like drunks evicted from a pub, what's to be done about it all?” He groused loudly, wiping his fingers distastefully on his trouser legs again. They were going to stain at this rate, grease was very difficult to remove. This on top of the rough layer of stubble he could feel forming on his jaw, but _that_ was a horror for later contemplation. He'd burn it off himself with magic before he got as bad as that scruffy _rogue_.

“I spoke with Mayor Dedrick at length about the problem this morning. Apparently there is a cave system beneath old Crestwood. This is where the Rift is emanating from.” Jack explained, turning his eyes to Dorian who was wondering just what time 'this morning' was if now was simply 'early.'

“But isn't old Crestwood completely flooded? The caves would be inaccessible yes?” Dorian inquired while he tugged on his thankfully dry, yet still filthy socks and dressed in layer upon layer of robes, the chill reaching him even through the layers of tightly knit fabric. He subtly checked his reflection in the glass of the filthy window, noting that his eyeliner still looked, _thankfully_ , passable.

“Yes. Which is why we will have to open the dam and drain the lake.”

“Seems a bit extreme, but simple enough I suppose.” And besides, it wasn't as though Dorian were about to suggest ferrying a boat out to that mess. He'd sooner eat his gloves.

“There is an old fort south of here with squatting bandits. We must evict them in order to gain access to the dam's controls.” The rogue said, fiddling with the belt of his worn leather coat. “Two birds, one stone.”

“And nothing we haven't dealt with before. Bianca always likes meeting new people.” Varric piped up cheerfully, heaving the great geared crossbow contraption over his stocky little shoulders. “Besides, the less water involved the better. Dwarves aren't particularly known for their Mabari paddle.”

“Something we both can agree on.” Dorian said with a smile, pulling his gloves on and gathering his staff from where he'd leaned it up the previous night.

“Among other things.” Varric said with a devious little smile, Dorian felt his mouth draw downward in a frown and glanced at Jack guiltily before he could stop himself. The rogue was busy re-stringing his bow and didn't look at either of them.

Bull chose that moment to insert himself into their damp little hovel, horns carving twin lines into the soft pine wood of the ceiling. He was all energy and smiles and his skin was shiny with rain, a heap of wood cradled in his massive arms.

“Are we ready to go yet? I figured I'd ask before I started on the houses.” He said with a grin, indicating the massive axe at his back.

Dorian sighed, and pulled up his hood, as ready as he was ever going to be to meet the damp.

 

=+=+=+=+=+=

 

It was easy enough to follow the muddy road to a small, moss covered stone castle, and then watch Bull gleefully cave in the keep gate of the bandit's moldy little hideaway as though it were a stack of twigs. Dorian was feeling much better today and was determined to show himself off as someone who was _not_ delicate, did _not_ need to be coddled, and could very well handle himself thank you very much. He absolutely refused to tolerate being the useless fourth cog of a machine that seemed to run fine with only three. He would show them that they _needed_ a skilled Tevinter mage in the Inquisition. He was _valuable_.

Bull swung his ridiculous axe in a wide, graceful arc over his head, then into the sternum of some poor unsuspecting bandit, but not to be outdone, Dorian threw up a great dark visage, black and purple and growling, a horrifying, undulating face of smoky horror that sent several of their foes screaming. Striking them down with controlled spears of lightning was easier than target practice.

“Take _that_ you filth!” Dorian exclaimed victoriously, flush from the thrill of battle.

Jack was some yards to his right, loosing bolt after bolt with Varric close behind, the dwarf ejecting arrows from his own bizarre weapon. They took care of the bandits that were still up on the higher walls and slightly beyond the reach of Bull and Dorian's strikes. Jack's arrows sunk deep into leather armor, snaking into gaps at the neck and armpit, and making killing strikes through the dark eye-holes of helmets. His aim was quite remarkable, and his face was steeled in furious concentration as he took the time to aim every shot, not wasting a single motion. His eyes were piercing and Dorian admired the form of his stance, and his skill with the bow. How _embarrassing_ would it be if the esteemed leader of the Inquisition was useless in a fight? It was truly a blessing that he-

-Dorian had barely enough time to sidestep an arrow, loosed from a bandit marksman on top of the stable roof. The tip of the arrow whistled by his waist and tore a hole right through the edge of his robes. On top of the displeasure at having his clothing damaged, Dorian got the added shame of feeling _extremely_ foolish for gawking at the rogue rather than paying attention to the scuffle at hand. There was important work to do here! He needed to stop acting like a dizzy little schoolboy with a crush. He struck the marksman down with a particularly vicious bolt of lightning, the man crisping in his armor like a frying fish. _Ha!_

After that they advanced through the keep, killing any who attacked them with practiced efficiency. It was not long before they had cleared the place out, the remaining highwaymen fleeing onto the dark roads.

“Good view. The Inquisition could use this place.” Iron Bull mused, swiping another clean path through the gore still clinging to his axe. How quaint.

“Indeed.” Jack's chest was heaving as he rifled through his bag, they were all breathing hard in the aftermath of the fight, and a rumpled Inquisition banner of faded purple was produced from the depths of the rogue's bag. As Dorian watched Jack raise the hastily tied banner up the cold, rusty flagpole, claiming the little keep as another watchtower for their dear Spymaster's network, he started to feel good again about his place here. This _was_ good work. This was the right choice.

 

=+=+=+=+=+=

 

“The mayor said the dam controls were through a back gate. Follow me.” Their fearless leader so astutely proclaimed. Following Jack only led to more outside and (of course) more _wet_ , but Dorian was feeling better about it, he didn't feel quite as damp as yesterday and so far, the only damage to his outfit was an arrow hole. Easily repaired back at Skyhold. Eventually they made it to the dam, and perched precariously upon the narrow walkway that spanned the length of the lake was a curious ramshackle little tavern, for _Maker_ knew what reason. Apparently, Ferelden's couldn't be more than a ten minute's jaunt away from any one source of their despicable black pissbeer. Dorian observed the creaking sign swaying in the wind, _The Rusted Horn_ , how fitting. The sign was rusted all to shit certainly, and the building itself looked as though it had long been given up on and started to become used as a place to store empty crates and unused farm equipment.

So far Jack seemed to have restrained himself to taking his temper out on their enemies rather than their odd little party. But their fearless leader picked the lock then eased the door open with a rather temperamental expression. Through the open doorway was filled with gentle firelight and giggling voices. Jack uttered a sharp “Who's there?” his leather gloves creaking around the curve of the bow, clenched tight in his fingers.

There was a thin shriek as they came upon a young woman and what Dorian assumed to be her lover. He sympathized with them immediately, all too familiar with sneaking around, trying not to be caught. The thrill of possible discovery wore off after a while and it merely became depressing and tiresome to find time with others after that. The fear of discovery becoming too real and dangerous. At least the poor things weren't caught in the middle of coitus, that would have been rather embarrassing for everyone involved.

“I knew this was a mistake!” The girl exclaimed from her place on the cozy looking fur rug in front of the fire, her brown doe eyes tearing up already.

“We didn't know you were here ser!” The young man said, getting to his feet immediately.

“Ahh, young love.” Varric remarked wistfully.

“How did you get past the guards?” Jack asked, lowering his bow and placing it at his back again.

“There weren't any when we came.” The girl offered, shooting watery, nervous glances at Iron Bull, who, in a inspiring display of self restraint and awareness, hung back in the doorway. Fereldens didn't often respond well to the sight of Qunari, less well then the sight of a 'Tevinter Magister'. It must have been the horns.

“Yes! We heard you'd killed all the bandits your worship.” The man hastened to explain, Jack's eyes gave a slight twitch at the title, “We didn't know you'd be moving in... You won't tell anyone that we were here will you?”

At the earnestly begged question, Jack deflated, looking almost apologetic. “No... No I won't tell anyone, but I don't believe it's safe here, you should probably go home.” He advised.

“Oh, _thank you_ ser! Lonnie's parents would have a fit if they knew.” The man explained, then sat back down with his little lady love. “We'll have to wait another hour or so, your father will still be up.” He said to the girl, _Lonnie_ , and Jack bid them good evening, moving away towards the back of the tavern while the rest of them followed. Iron Bull gave the man a wink (a wink? Or was he merely blinking? With the eye patch it was difficult to tell) and a thumbs up which was met with twin nervous stares, but the Qunari remained just as cheerful as ever. _Ridiculous._

Dorian could still catch snatches of, “Maybe we can try the caves next time?” From the boy and an admonishing “But you _hate_ spiders...” From the girl, and in all honesty, he wished them the best, their worries were few at that age. Even fewer when the grand ol' Inquisition swept up their town's mess. In truth, he was almost envious, if only things could always be so simple.

In the back of the tavern was a small room housing a capstan wheel that apparently controlled the flow of water to the dam. Dorian had to wonder what they had been thinking when they installed the damn thing in a lonely bloody tavern ( _southerners_ ) but he reasoned that the capstan had likely come first and the tavern built around it. A little respite for the workers building the dam perhaps? He could use a little respite himself. It was barely midday (he guessed) and the fire in the other room was teasing him with its promise of warmth and comfort, the enormous barrels around every corner making him all the more aware of the dryness of his mouth and the chill in his fingertips that a nice brandy would do wonders to banish. The barrels were likely all empty anyway.

“A little muscle ought to do it.” Bull said proudly, giving his obscene shoulders a casual stretch before he heaved his weight against the wheel, spinning the winch as easily as unscrewing a jar. And just as Dorian was wondering precisely _how_ the contraption worked, there was a rumbling and a series of heavy vibrations moved through their feet, accompanied by a great rushing noise. It seemed a little muscle _had_ done it.

“That _sounds_ like it worked. Let's see what the damage is then.” Jack said.

“Like the show 'Vint?” Bull asked Dorian suggestively, waggling his stupid eyebrows above his one stupid eye that housed a knowing glint.

“Oh, but of course!” Dorian replied acidly. “You've found your true purpose after all, a lumbering oxen pushing a wheel.”

“Yeah. You like it.” Bull said smiling, satisfied, and flexing his arm a bit for him.

Dorian sighed heavily. “Shall we? I'd prefer to vomit _outside_ if possible.” And followed Jack back out into the (wouldn't you know it) rain. No wonder they'd needed a bloody dam built, it never _stopped_.

They ought to have named this sad little corner of Ferelden _Pisswood_. He'd have to remember to tell Sera, she'd find it amusing at least. Would be good to have _someone_ get a laugh out of it.

 


	9. A Taste of Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, sorry, been a busy month.
> 
> I sometimes jump around in time, I hope it's not confusing, some of these are stand alone chapters, but others are multi-part, and I'll indicate when they are, but they are all directly related. This one is set in Haven.

_Some say the world will end in fire,_  
 _Some say in ice._  
 _From what I’ve tasted of desire_  
 _I hold with those who favor fire._  
 _But if it had to perish twice,_  
 _I think I know enough of hate_  
 _To say that for destruction ice_  
 _Is also great_  
 _And would suffice._  
— Fire and Ice, Robert Frost

 

They almost died there in Redcliffe Castle, left to burn in a future they had skipped into like cast stones. The betrayal Dorian felt, the utter shock at witnessing the lengths his former mentor had gone to. All for _Felix_. It was funny how most terrible things seemed to leave a direct and bloody trail back to Tevinter. You'd think his countrymen would have learned to wipe their feet on the doormat by now. And by  funny, Dorian meant utterly exasperating and slightly disheartening. As far as anyone knew, there was no cure for Blight sickness, Felix had some time left, yes, but nothing would truly save him. Not bargaining, or time alterations, and certainly not some full of himself pretender god who was _very probably_ a former Magister.

And the famous _Herald of Andraste_ , whispered about from Minrathous to Ferelden and every filthy little crevice in between. A figure blown up to such overwhelming proportions through mere rumor alone that Dorian half expected the famed Heraldto be twelve feet tall, adorned head to toe in gold and silks with his divine hand wreathed in the Maker's light. But what Dorian looked upon in the dingy confines of the boarded up Redcliffe chapel was instead an unshaven, disheveled man as scruffy in appearance as he was blunt in manner. Of course he was. _A native southerner in his natural habitat, I should take notes,_ Dorian had thought. No finesse, no tact and certainly no style. Jack Trevelyan had a glowing hand that closed rifts, a bow on his back, and a frown on his face. A memorable first meeting certainly, but his companions had looked more impressive. To say that Dorian felt a slight needle of disappointment was an understatement. Not that the fabled marked hand wasn't absolutely _fascinating_ despite it all.

Dorian had expected panic, confusion, anger, and mistrust at the very least when they'd found themselves in a wet dungeon a year in the future with red Lyrium sprouting from the stonework like spring daffodils. Anything but _“Do you have any ideas?”_ As though Dorian were someone to be respected, listened to, _trusted_.

No. Not what he'd been expecting at all. Surprise, surprise.

If there was a single graceful bone in the gangly ranger's body, it was for archery. He was fast with his bow and his aim was impressive. He gripped the arrows in his hand, sometimes five at a time, to fire them in quick succession, one after the other. For someone who had no magic skills to speak of, if you didn't count a Fade touched hand that is, the rogue's adroitness was more than enough to keep him not only breathing, but _victorious_ in his endeavors, making Dorian more than a little open to the possibility of divine providence. Can't have just any old useless barbarian as a prophet now can we? Best to pick someone with a few talents.

Dorian knew his message, willingly delivered by Felix, had been a last resort, a shot in the dark to try to nip this bad business right in the bud, and by the grace of the Maker, Jack had decided to give a _Tevinter mage_ a chance, which was more than could be said for the majority of Southern Thedas. Alexius had even been allowed to live, despite what he'd done, _could_ have done. He was currently a prisoner of the Inquisition yes, but he was alive and life meant hope. Dorian would not abandon his mentor just yet.

After, Dorian made his spectacular entrance into their decrepit little “war room” just in time to watch the resident, dashing Commander Cullen give the dark haired Herald an earful, while the man simply stood there and took it. His face stony with the expression of one who was only half listening, as though he had been on the receiving end of lectures more times then he'd care to remember.

And following the immediate conclusion of this conversation, Dorian had promptly been invited to stay. Roomful of groaning ignored thusly, and filthy glares from Cassandra dodged expertly. Truly it had been his last option and Dorian could not have been more grateful. All well and good, and just what he'd desired, yes?

Well, _nearly_ yes.

Haven was cold in both clime and disposition, and Dorian could swear that he felt a noticeable frosty downswing in the already frigid breeze if he say, desired to saunter into the drafty shack that Haven collectively labeled a tavern for a warm-ish mug of the brown sludge that the locals affectionately referred to as “beer.” And if Dorian watched the blushy little barkeep like a three eyed hawk when she poured his drink to watch for any sign of poisoning, well, that was just good sense. He'd always been sensible. _And_ he'd grown rather fond of the grated hashbrowns they served by the pound, not that he would admit this under pain of torture or death, and he would bet every last copper he had (you don't have two to rub together, let's just be honest with ourselves Dorian) that the mystery “meat” was probably Nug or worse. Rats maybe? But all in all, with a full belly it was a little easier to convince himself that he hadn't deliberately volunteered himself to live and work in a frozen shithole.

Dorian shared the quarters of his freezing shack with the sour faced, dark skinned Alchemist Adan. The man was ornery on his best days, but at least he did not dislike Dorian merely for the country of his birth. Rather he seemed to dislike anyone who spoke to him in general. But they got on alright, surely there were worse people he could have been bunked up with. Solas came to mind. Adan was a night owl like him so there were no complaints if Dorian kept a lamp burning late into the night reading. They had some rather interesting conversations about potion making and theory which Dorian enjoyed, and after a little warm up period the alchemist did not hesitate to ask for Dorian's assistance in crafting Lyrium potions or interpreting a set of notes his deceased mentor had left him. At least there were _some_ people here who liked him.

The esteemed Herald of Andraste was seen in only fleeting glances after Dorian had settled himself into Haven. Like a shadow glimpsed in the corner of one's eye. They'd spoken a few times about this and that, but mostly Jack Trevelyan made himself scarce, sequestered in his own drafty shack (though it was probably the warmest place outside of the main building) or milling about in the war room with his advisors. It didn't take Dorian long to discern the man's _other_ hiding place when he dared brave the frigid winds for a bit of boredom reduction by way of cautious exploring. He could only breathe the stale, potion scented air of his shared quarters for so long after all.

It should have been obvious really, the man always smelled of hay and horse.

Jack was leading a large red elk by a harness, a _hart_ the elves kept calling it, their faces lighting up in a special reverence that told Dorian that there was some sort of regard for the beast among their culture. It ran up and down the road, prancing proudly while Dorian leaned against the smith's fence, observing.

“Always with the horses I see. Shall we set up a bed for you in the stables or will a pile of hay suffice?” Dorian remarked to the approaching Trevelyan.

“It's a bit different from a horse.” Jack called to him as he passed, his breath puffing out in clouds of moist cold, the hart stamping its hooves and tossed its massive head. Dorian took a reflexive step back.

“Yes, horses can't gore you upon their rather impressive rack of antlers.”

“You can get kicked by a horse. Or fall off and break your nose.” Jack replied rather blandly, his hand petting the no doubt soft muzzle of the hart's face, it sniffed his fingers as though looking for treats.

Dorian smiled. “Speaking from personal experience are we?”

Jack frowned, narrowing blue eyes at him, and scrubbed a hand over his face that had acquired a pink tinge. Ha. Dorian followed when he led the hart out of the gates toward the frozen lake, people parted way before him like water around a stone, whispers following in the wake they made, rippling outwards until everyone in the immediate vicinity was watching. Dorian wondered if had been him instead, if he would have enjoyed all the attention. Perhaps. The idea of a _Tevinter_ being Andraste's chosen was enough to bring a smile to his face, but the cold made his teeth ache. The attention might get old fast if you ever wanted an unobserved moment to yourself however. Jack seemed to want little else but that.

The hart was left at the edge of the frozen lake where it busied itself with eating the old dried grasses and herbs that dared grown in such a harsh place. Dorian stretched his eyes out over the vast expanse of white nothingness, wishing for some spot of color to brighten the place up. Something _alive_. Blasted snow was blindingly bright when the sun shone upon it, made him all the more aware of the endless cold, and blew in drifts spraying sharp and icy over his face. At this rate he was going to have to invest in a scarf of some kind to cover his face, and that would be an incredible loss for everyone all around.

The pulsing green of the great rip in the sky was not the splash of color Dorian had in mind however. The light undulated outward, rocks hovering in mid air like the clouds that spit snow endlessly down upon them. The tall trees bent over almost double from the force of the wind that battered them and Dorian shuddered, folding his arms against his chest. Against the cold. Sometimes he woke in the middle of the night, thinking he had accidentally slipped into the fade, but it was just that _thing_ up in the sky, whispering madness down upon them all and-

-“And just where do you think _you're_ going?” Dorian nearly spat while Jack stood on the ice of the shallowest part of the lake. He was only given a backwards glance in response. _Rude._

Jack cautiously -perhaps _madly_ \- made his way across the frozen surface of the lake. Everyone watched, and Dorian imagined sweat blooming on their brows at the thought of their _precious Herald_ falling through ice, slipping under and never coming back up until springtime revealed him months later. If spring ever came to this horrible place. At least if the man did happen to fall through, then well, at least no one could say it was Dorian's fault. Though, now that he thought of it, he was sure there was no limit to what his countrymen might be blamed for. Dorian was far more handsome than a goat and refused to be named as such.

_Don't fall in you mad bastard because I'll have to be the one to haul you out and suede doesn't dry very well-_

Lord Trevelyan's feet slid a little on the surface before he righted himself, and the ice groaned beneath him, making otherworldly noises as frozen water swelled and shrank, metallic pinging sounds echoing off the cliffs on the other side. Before long he was standing in the center of the lake. The whipping wind was trying its damnedest to send him on his arse but Jack stood there very still and gazed out at that great big gaping hole in the sky like it could have been the face of the Maker himself thundering out at him through the clouds and-

And Dorian felt a flicker of something. A whole lot of _something_.

_Don't._

Jack raised the marked hand and held it out, closing one eye and clenching his fingers tight to grasp and swallow the breach in one fleeting clench of his fist. Then dropped his hand again and turned back to those gathered around the edge of the lake, watching but not watching, from the safety of solid ground.

_Dorian don't. That's not why you're here._

The hart suddenly abandoned its meager grasses to brave its way towards Jack, a few scattering steps upon the ice, hooves sliding ungracefully. And Jack rushed back, his feet slipping and sliding until he was able to regain his balance upon the harness of that beast. And Jack was smiling, _smiling_ , and talking to it in words no one could hear over the wind, and he smiled at Dorian too, the expression almost apologetic.

It was too late for him now. The damage was done.

 


End file.
